


With Pace and a Fury Defiant

by snapbackbuddies



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Mild Sexual Content, Painplay, Power Dynamics, Sadism, none of these tags were intended to be sexual but john's a freak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:47:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27335911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapbackbuddies/pseuds/snapbackbuddies
Summary: John leans forward, drawing Wes in by the shirt as much as he can while Wes's hands are bound. “Fight back, Deputy,” he hisses, fingers curling tight into Wes’s torn collar. “Do it. Do anything you can, do anything you want." He tips his face in close, so close their foreheads bump. “Make it hurt.”The Confession, but Deputy Beltran makes John bleed.
Relationships: Male Deputy | Judge/John Seed
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	With Pace and a Fury Defiant

**Author's Note:**

> local men beat the crap out of each other, consider this a massive turn on
> 
> idrk about this fic, hopefully it's not as horrible as i feel like it is. enjoy!

"So, who wants to go first?"

"Fuck you," Wes spits instantly, all fire as Hudson whimpers across from him. "I know you want to fuck with me. Try your worst. And know that every time you hurt me, I'm imagining doing it to you, and I'll add it to my to-do list for when I finally get my hands on you."

John's eyes spark, and he tosses his knife sharpener aside as saunters to Wes. "Why fantasize about switching places?" he says, tipping his head, "Why not fight back, Deputy Beltran? Or do you plan to just sit there?"

Wes stares, expression unchanging.

John leans forward, drawing Wes in by the shirt as much as he can while Wes's hands are bound. “Fight back, Deputy,” he hisses, fingers curling tight into Wes’s torn collar. “Do it. Do anything you can, do anything you want." He tips his face in close, so close their foreheads bump. “Make it hurt.”

Wes hesitates, chest pumping, then rears his head back and smashes his forehead into John’s nose. John staggers back with a loud noise— amused and pleased and pained and bitter all at once. “Yes,” he spits, stumbling all the way back to his little desk with his head tipped back, gripping the edge once his ass bumps against it. He breathes for a second, then brings the back of his hand up to wipe his bloody nose. “Didn’t that feel good? To hurt me?”

“Yes,” Wes snaps without thinking. 

“Yes,” John echoes, dropping his chin to stare through Wes, blood dripping from his nose into his teeth. “Yes. It feels good to hurt me. To take it out on me.” He lurches toward Wes again, clutching Wes's knees. "Do it again."

Wes's eyes bounce between his, trying to figure out his angle, then brings his feet up, bound together, to kick John solidly in the hip, sending him crashing to the floor. Hard enough that his hip will bruise, hard enough that his head knocks back into the concrete floor the bunker. John groans, chest arching up against the pain. His eyesight blurs, but not so much that he can't see Hudson's shocked expression, hope crawling into her eyes.

That hope changes and disappears as Wes continues. He hurts John as best he can with his hands bound—smashes his skull into John's again, stomps on the toe of his shoe, kicks at his knee, bites, snarls, spits—until John's arms shake when he brings himself off the ground and his bloody smile costs more to throw Wes's way. Until Hudson is watching with bewilderment encroaching on concern, until Wes is panting and staring with a curled lip at the blood dripping down John's chin. "What the fuck are you doing?" he demands eventually, when John's palm slips in a pool of blood from his nose and his elbow goes thudding to the floor. "Why are you letting me do this?"

John turns his face into his shoulder to wipe blood from his face. "To see how long you would," he pants, and staggers to his feet. "You think I'm irredeemable for the pain I inflict on others. How I like to make others suffer." Once he catches his balance, he takes one step toward Wes. "And look how quickly you did just the same." John wipes the bottom half of his face, sweeping up blood in his palm, then flicks his hand toward the ground, flicking blood across the floor. "Look how much you liked it. How when I was bruised and bloody, you kept hurting me. Because it felt _good_."

"I'm not like you," Wes spits. "You know why? 'Cause you deserve this. The people you hurt don't."

"I do deserve this, that's a fact," John hisses. "Whether or not they deserve it is a matter of perspective." He steps toward Wes, this time not asking him to hurt him, practically taunting him with it by not saying it. "But that doesn't matter, because you know what does? The fact that you liked it. That you wanted to hurt me." His eyes flicker over Wes's clenched jaw, fingers clutching the arms of his chair, legs braced. "You still want to hurt me."

Wes's hands spasm. "Of course I do."

John's lip pulls back in a sneer. "Good," he spits, snatches a knife from his tool chest, and cuts free one of Wes's wrists. "Maybe it'll be easier with a hand free."

And it says something about Wes that he does it. That he punches John while he's leaned close enough, sends him careening back, and that he doesn't try to free himself— he waits for John to come back for another punch, and another, and another. He beats John to a pulp, or at least tries to, splitting his knuckles on John's cheekbones, his teeth. John takes each punch, comes back each time, until Hudson starts making high, desperate noises— eyes pleading Wes to run with his freedom instead of indulging in his anger.

John grips his jaw with one hand, works against the persistent ache Wes as put there, the other hand braced against the floor. "Upset to see who your Deputy really is?" he taunts, knowing the image he paints, hunched on the floor with blood smeared over his hands and halfway up his forearms, still fresh and dripping from his nose, wiped onto his cheeks. He lowers his voice. "Upset to see him so much like me?"

"I'm nothing like you," Wes growls, shaking out his fist, eyes darting to Hudson. "I'm not doing this for fun."

"Don't lie," John snarls, eyes cutting back to Wes. His entire body aches. It feels good, but he's not sure how steady he'll be on his feet, so he rises slowly, pretending it's just menace that makes him move so careful. "Why don't I take Deputy Hudson out of the room, eliminate distractions."

Wes's free hand flexes, knuckles of his free hand going white around the arm of his chair. "Come back soon," he says dryly. His eyes flicker from John to Hudson again. He gives her a short nod, and John watches her swallow a cry.

John resists the urge to bare his teeth and comes to stand behind Hudson, holding himself upright with the back of her chair. His arms tremble. "So eager," John purrs. "Once Hudson is back in her room, we can begin your Confession in earnest, now that you've gotten all that out of your system," John says, voice low and dangerous, then coaxes, "I'll reward you with another punch for every sin you admit, how about that?

He doesn't bother to rebind Wes's free hand. He knows that Wes won't try to leave. Wes had relished too much in the opportunity to beat the shit out of him, but never to kill him or even knock him unconscious— there wasn't a thought of escape in Wes's mind. He just wanted to take out all his frustrations on John. Wanted John to suffer. Wanted to hurt John.

Which is perfect. That's _perfect_.

John just doesn't expect Wes to be waiting around the edge of the door for him when he gets back, metal pipe wielded like a bat in both hands, one with bruised knuckles, the other unbroken. When Wes swings his weapon, he does it without hesitation, smashing the side of John's head so hard he sees stars, so hard his eyes roll up instantly and he collapses against the wall. It takes too long for his eyes to focus back in, and when he does, head spinning, blood trickling from his hairline, Wes is straddling his lap, John's own knife held under his jaw.

John's eyelashes flutter. He swallows to feel the blade's edge press into his throat. He stares up at Wes, eyes bleary. "Clever," he praises.

Wes's face stays flat, eyes flickering over John's face. "Maybe you're just not as smart as you think you are." John swallows, tastes copper.

"I was too trusting," he wheezes, "Saw what I wanted to see in you."

John's vision blurs Wes at the edges, softens the curls of his hair, the tense lines of his shoulders. The ceiling light is almost perfectly behind Wes's head from this angle, and the antlers that frame it sprout from Wes's curls, an inch off center. He'd be a saint if they were three feet to the right.

Wes presses the knife's edge harder into his throat. Any harder and John will bleed for him from yet another point on his aching body. "Got caught up in your own fantasy, Johnny," Wes acknowledges. John's weak fingers scrabble at Wes's filthy shirt. "You want me to be just as bad as you. Just as covered in blood and sin as you. Why?"

The room spins worse as John tries to move, so he settles back against the wall again, letting Wes press into all his aches and pains, all his tender spots. He doesn't want to answer that question and give Wes access to another one. It's not like he doesn't fucking know the answer, anyway. "You still liked hurting me," John accuses, blinking hard. His head is pulsing. "That's your… your sin." Wes's fingers shift around the handle of the knife, knuckles pressing into John's throat. "Wrath." 

Wes hums, considering. "Maybe I liked it," he murmurs, scraping the knife up John's neck, against the stubble growing there, until it rests just under his jaw, John forced to tip his head up or be cut. He reaches out with his other hand, uses his first three fingers to wipe blood from John's upper lip and paint it across his cheek. "But you liked it too. Didn't you?"

John's breath leaves him in a rush. Lightheadedness worsens the way his heavy head spins. "Yes," he gasps, "yes."

Wes's grin is sharp, and John realizes that he's been trapped. Realizes he's being used. Where he tried to manipulate Wes, he's now being manipulated.

It makes John want to _whine_.

"Good boy," Wes purrs, and eases up on the knife just enough that the smallest movement won't split John open, so John lurches forward to bite his lip, to make him bleed too, to use him back.

The kiss is all teeth. Wes bites back, and then he's gripping the side of John's neck, hauling him closer, hauling John into his mouth. John whimpers, both his hands fisted in Wes' shirt at his stomach, tearing the rip he'd put in his shirt even wider. "Fuck me," John grits out, air punching out of his lungs. The knife on his throat stutters, nicks him, and his eyes roll. "Yes. Yes, please."

"You like it that much?" Wes huffs, grinding his ass against John just once, making his hands jerk, still clutching his shirt. Wes slides his hand up from John's neck and into his hair, gets a good hold, and forces John back into the wall. Away from his knife, which he tosses to the side. John could grab it. He doesn't.

"Fuck me," John insists, chest heaving so hard it hurts, pulls at all the aches and pains Wes put so lovingly into him. His voice is pitched, whiny, desperate. "We're just the same. You have to see that. We want this."

Wes dives in, threatening to pull out a fistful of John's hair with his hold, kisses John filthy and deep and bloody. "Sorry," he pants once John is breathless and stupid, hand reaching behind him for something. John is enraptured by his blood on Wes's lips. "Another time, John. Maybe I'll catch you at the ranch."

Metal glints, Wes twists in his lap, and John takes blow to the head that he can't stay conscious through.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm growing quite fond of wes and john/wes so like,,, let me know if anybody else is interested in seeing some more of them lol. as always, i love kudos and comments, tell me your thoughts!!
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @stacispratt!!


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